


The Healing Dawn

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Gods and Goddesses, Magical Semi-Realism, Medicine, Medieval Society, Women Being Awesome, aka what happens when a Wattpad story turns into an AO3 novel, but she is revived, the protagonist dies prior to the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28901874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Kudos: 1





	The Healing Dawn

“It’s dying,” her youngest sister says. An ivory cloak is draped around her shoulders, all the way down to the thighs, and with each passing century a feather unhooks and drops to the floor below.

 _Death,_ some have called her, but she knows this not to be true. If anything, she is no more responsible for the end of the living than _Time_ itself, nor more pleased with their suffering. So, they call her _Finis_ , which is a much more realistic name. She sits there and waits for what it is to come, and talks sometimes, her thin hands folded over her lap and the feathers that nobody cares to brush off anymore. “You will die too, if you go back.”

 _Principium_ laughs like she always has; it is the mirth of all the doomed and the damned, united in a single sound. She has seen them all, talked to them, loved them in their own strange ways. She is the oldest of her siblings, after all, who but her to have _time_?

“It’s beautiful,” Her ancient sister clasps her hands together, wriggles a little on her throne. She has never been one for stillness. “Don’t you think so, oh dear sister? Wouldn’t it be a wonderful game?”

“She will suffer,” _Finis_ answers, deaf (or partially so) to her pleas. It wouldn’t be the first time the flames of callowness quell to her command. “She will burn and scorch, and be no more happy because of it.”

 _Principium_ grins. Her eyes gleam with the joy of a secret that has been kept well through ages. Or, even more wonderfully, doesn’t need to be kept at all, has never been hidden from anyone shrewd enough to look for it.

“Don’t all mortals do?”

With that she shrugs, and a fistful of feathers fall at her feet. They are minute compared to her, and no bigger than a grain of sand to her sisters, powerful as they are. She gathers them one by one, but they slip from between her fingers.

“Stop that. You can’t do anything. Only the oblivious can hold them,” _Finis_ sighs. “Why though? Isn’t this place enough?”

She wishes to explain it, but she can remember how. It has been very long since she had a mouth.

A hand lands on her back, youthful fingers wrapping around an angular shoulder. 

“Fin… you know it never will be.” 

_Principium_ ’s words are learned as they are silently mournful, the only testament to an infinite existence, a thousand years of griefs and more. “She is alive, _was_ alive. Look at her, do you think she will ever be able to ignore it?” For a single second the skin on her forehead wrinkles and both of her sisters look equally perpetual to her. “And even if she does… who are we to prevent it?”

 _Finis_ ’s lips are a thin line. She breathes slowly, her eyes sharp, but composed. “Very well, if that’s what you truly wish,” she tries to nod once, and actually manages to recognize the empty weight of her head bobbing this time. It’s heavier than she thought. “Rest now, you… you _midget_. There is much we must prepare.”

And so, per her youngest sister’s instruction, she sleeps.

In her dreams, the waters part to let a crudely braided basket through. The screams from the boat hurt her ears. She had nearly forgotten about them.

“ _And if your elder son brings you misery, take his name and cast him away,_ ” a voice chants. It sounds like angels, holy and terrifying. “ _And if it’s your youngest daughter that causes you shame, drown her in the village well._ ”

The creel floats for a moment. It doesn’t smell like fish, and she finds her body chasing it through the wild waves. Rain pours from above like the great flood, the _last_ flood, drenching her to the invisible bones. There is a name on the tip of her tongue, and something salty surges under her mouth. Metal?

 _“Bring out the buckets!”_ A different voice is ordering now, not unlike her sibling’s, though younger in knowledge ( _in age, in power_ ). Fear soaks the determination, and she feels him falter. _“We’ll make it or we’ll be killed, but I am not dying here!”_

No, he is not. Not for some time. She feels quite sure about that, but fails to recall _why_ , and she has to keep it from dragging her below the water when the memories become too heavy for her spirit to bear. In her distraction, the air has turned heavy with the sounds of prayers, whispered and cried at an equal amount.

 _“No! No! Hold the oars! Gods, why have you forsaken me?”_ Her basket is being dragged away by the wind, sinking down with the water’s fierce pull. She ceases her reflection to observe it. It feels so very familiar.

 _Moses basket_ , she suddenly recalls, an epiphany. It is called a Moses basket.

A wave shakes the overflowing boat, screams drowning the desperation. She drowns too, or should be drowning by all senses of the word, could she remember what it feels to breathe. The remnants of her spirit dips below the coastline, and just like that, she is back.


End file.
